"Barry N. Malzberg - Major League Triceratops" - читать интересную книгу автора (Malzberg Barry N)

MAJOR LEAGUE TRICERATOPS
B a r r y N. M a l z b e r g




IN THE GALLERY
In the dim corridor, the spaces hushed by fog, the dim and dazzling lights of the exposed diorama
playing, the paleontologist stared at the great, shrouded skeletons revolving slowly into the light, the huge
and vaulting figures ofStruthiomimus andTriceratops and that flaming tower, theTyrannosaurus,
emerging into the strobe. Look at those sons of bitches, the paleontologist said. He was old as new
scientists go, a late career change had plummeted him into university at forty, out at fifty with a deep and
final understanding of mortality. Ever see anything like that? The woman whose hand he was holding
shrugged and shook her head. She had learned the virtues of silence with this man early on. He would not
listen.

They were killers, the paleontologist said. One kick, you were gone. But nowthey are gone. What do
you think of that?

I don’t think, the woman said.

This was close to the truth, near enough to pass, anyway. The tyrannosaur’s enormous kneebone, the
arch of that bone, loomed before them and she looked up, the line of her gaze passing almost
indifferently, casually, over the small skull, half-concealed behind the foot of the largerTriceratops . The
skull was the size of a man’s and flayed to an ardent white.

Takethat one on the ranch, the paleontologist said. He scratched his nose. Ride ’em cowboy, he said.
Take that one down the loop of Montana, what do you say?

I don’t say anything, the woman said. You have taught me the crest of silence. She squeezed his hand,
curled a finger in his palm. Not even a haiku, she said. Not even five by seven by five.

The paleontologist turned, stared at her with full interest, his gaze caught by the fine cheekbones, the
intensity of her gaze, something of the prehistoria herself, he thought, in this odd and twisted light. Her
father had been Japanese, the mother pureNorteamericana, and the Orient had seemed buried in her
face until this angle, this moment, now in the spattered light cast by the dinosaur, in the clutch of her hand
she seemed, suddenly, to bear all of the wound and stain of her heritage. Five by seven by five, the
paleontologist said.In the light the bird/Caught inCretaceous flight as the bone talks to us . What do
you think of that?

I think it is very decadent, she said.De-ca-dent, like the time travelers going back to shoot them on their
ranches, that is what I think.

But not touching?

It is touching, she said. Everything is touching in the gallery at noon in the dark. She pointed at the small,
shattered ridges of teeth. It may talk to you, she said. It doesn’t talk to me.
I have nothing to do with the ranches, he said. It is unfair of you to discuss the ranches. I am a scientist.

Yes, she said, you are very scientific. She made him feel the pressure then, putting her knee against his.